


Four Times Rose Killed Eridan and One Time She Didn't

by JackOfNone



Category: Homestuck
Genre: 5 Things, Body Horror, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Consensual Violence, F/M, Lovecraftian, Mercy Killing, Non-Consensual Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-26
Updated: 2012-06-26
Packaged: 2017-11-08 14:25:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/444160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackOfNone/pseuds/JackOfNone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rose meets Eridan in her dreams, and the results are explosive...to say the least.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Times Rose Killed Eridan and One Time She Didn't

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Четыре Раза Роуз Убила Эридана и Один Раз Не Стала (Four Times Rose Killed Eridan and One Time She Didn't by JackOfNone)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1386844) by [Mr_Scapegrace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mr_Scapegrace/pseuds/Mr_Scapegrace)



The first time, Eridan begs you to teach him magic. He doesn’t call it begging, of course — he’s imperious, and looks down his nose at you as though you’re his subject to command, and but you can hear the desperation behind his words. 

“Teach me somethin,” he says. “That magics real impressivve.” 

“Despite being, in your words, a load of fake.” You cross your wands in front of you and look at the dream-Eridan. You don’t know which one this is — there seem to be an infinite number of doomed dream-bubbles for every troll, each of them peacefully drifting through the Furthest Ring carrying the memory of some long-ago failure, preserved in blackest amber. 

This Eridan, you suspect, died sometime immediately preceding your first conversation together. 

“Wwell I can appreciate some good fakin,” Eridan says. “I mean its not as good as cold hard science a course.” 

“Science,” you repeat, a smile playing across your lips. Eridan — this Eridan, the one who never learned your lesson in showmanship — cocks his head, his gills closing and unclosing with a soft wet _schllkk_. “Are you an appreciator of the scientific method, then?”

“Yeah im all about science,” Eridan says. He grins — a stupid, leering grin that you hate immediately. “Fuckin all ovver it. You knoww, science vvs magic, classic rivvalry, dont you think?” The already leering grin becomes fully one hundred percent leer. 

Your painted black lips curl into a smile. “Of course,” you say. “And if you’re such a fan of the scientific method, I think you should appreciate the value of examining all available evidence.” 

You lift one wand to the sky and speak a word that leaves blisters on your tongue. 

The sky darkens when They hear, then tears, and bleeds. 

You wake up in her bed the moment the screaming starts. 

* * * 

Eridan’s world is full of things that look like Gothic cathedrals gone slightly wrong — spires pointing at strange angles, gargoyles with crude and misshapen faces, walls that should not stay up but somehow do. It’s painful to admit this, even to yourself, but you like the look of it. 

He’s sitting on top of a pile of corpses this time — winged corpses, vaguely serpentine and also vaguely human, all broken and bleeding black watery blood. His wand glows white; in this dream, the Thorns are back in your hands and you can feel something dark and cruel pawing at the back of your mind — a comfort, a promise. 

Eridan stands up when he sees you, his balance a bit unsteady on his uneven, fleshy throne. 

“I learned your fuckin lesson,” he says. He’s wearing some kind of god-tier outfit — Rennaissance Faire quality puffy pants, a cloak with a hood, and all of it in a pale yellow that clashes hideously with the purple stripe in his hair and the jagged wings sprouting out of his back. They’re too small, too irregular to fly, but then god tiers have never worked on any kind of rational principle of flight. “On showwmanship.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh?” you say, eyeing the pile of angelic corpses. “You’ve certainly gained a flare for the dramatic since we last met.” Eridan’s lip curls into a sneer, and you feel a sense of satisfaction even though you know you are both thinking of different meetings. The blackness at the back of your mind swells, whispers, pleads. “What is it that you want, Prince of Hope?”

“Magic vvs science,” he says, as he has said a hundred times before. “A fight.” 

You raise an eyebrow. “Is this some kind of troll flirting? Kanaya has explained your peculiar romantic inclinations at length—“ 

“No need to be fuckin crude about it,” Eridan says. “Just think wwe havve somethin here. Otherwwise wwhy do you keep comin back?” He grins a horrible, unflattering grin full of rows and rows of teeth, like a shark.

“Obviously not for the pleasure of your scintillating conversation,” You say. 

“Then can wwe fuckin fight already? The tension is killin me here.” 

You discover quite early in your battle that Eridan’s dead-angel throne isn’t merely a decorative set piece. Their blood, quite simply, _burns_.

* * *

“Is this human food?” Eridan says. How he got into this memory, you aren’t quite sure. “Its fuckin shit.” You’re twelve years old and dressed for a party. Your mother had told you to invite whoever you wanted to your twelfth birthday, and in a stroke of passive-aggression that you always found particularly inspired, you had invited no one.

You lick the frosting on your spoon delicately and watch Eridan like a hawk as he sips at a wine glass filled with non-alcoholic grape juice. The silence is delightful as he swallows, and you watch his face turn slowly from disdain to discomfort to fury and pain. 

“Wwhat the fuckin hell,” he manages, before the retching overtakes him. 

“Angel blood. Have you ever heard the term ‘turnabout is fair play’, Mister Ampora? Do they have that on your planet?” 

He chokes, doubles over, and vomits purple and bile all over your mother’s tastefully-decorated red velvet cupcakes. 

* * * 

This time it’s your own planet. The rain is particularly beautiful today, all rainbow colors and shimmering sunlight. 

Eridan’s here, and he’s crying. You’re pretty sure you’ve never seen troll tears before, because you’re surprised by the color — purple, like his blood. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask, but he clutches at his knees and rocks back and forth. You take a step closer and he lashes out at you with one of his clawed hands, as though warding you off. 

“Get the fuck awway,” he says. “Dont fuckin come any closer.” 

“Why?” you say, though you think you know the answer. 

“Youll bring em here,” he says, and chokes on another sob. “Those things. Out there. Theyre all out there pawwin at these bubbles like fuckin purrbeasts.” 

“I take it you’ve met the Horrorterrors,” you say, and maybe it’s a little cruel, but you smile. 

“No, no no no no,” he says, curling into a ball. “Wwere all dead and trapped in these fuckin glass bubbles just wwaitin to shatter and let the Furthest Ring in, let THEM in, fef nevver told me wwhat they wwere, I fuckin fed it Rose, I fucking fed it and I never kneww—“ 

He rants like this for a good five more minutes before you lift your wand. 

“Hush, hush, it’ll be all right now,” you tell him as you kneel and stroke the top of his horns. He doesn’t seem to notice. 

Killing him that time was necessary and kind even, but no fun at all. He’d been right about that, at least — it was so much better when you fought. 

Maybe he was right. Maybe you really do have something -- something terrible, gruesome, but nonetheless a 'thing' in the purest sense of the term.

You wonder if Eridan, despite his apparent permanent losing streak, feels the same way.

* * *

So as it turns out, a troll who is also a magician can live a very long time with only half a body. 

Gamzee might have thought he was dead when he came to collect Eridan’s — the intricate inner workings of Gamzee’s mind were abstruse and nonsensical, even to himself. He’d kept the bottom half but left the top in one of his hiding spots, which he was then forced to abandon when Kanaya discovered it while patrolling. Maybe Gamzee had intended to come back for it, but Kanaya wouldn’t touch Eridan’s corpse, so he’d been left there all alone until you’d stumbled across him, quite literally. 

He is dying, that much is obvious, but he’s taking his damned sweet time about it. It’s been weeks, maybe, and might be weeks more before he finally goes. He might have used magic to extend his life without thinking of the consequences — that sort of thing certainly happened to wizards in stories that you’d read, back when Earth was still a thing. 

Eridan’s eyes track you as you sift through some implements on the other table. There’s a rustle of cloth as his arm twitches in an attempt to move. All he manages to do is shift his torso a tiny bit, the torn purple tangle of his guts sloshing around on the table.

You pick out a pair of tongs and a magnifying glass and move over to where Eridan is glaring at you. 

“I fuckin hate you,” he snarls, loud enough that it re-opens some of your neat stitches and blood begins to ooze thickly over the table. “Fuckin bitch.” 

“I hate you too,” you say, kissing him on the forehead.

“Kill me you fuckin psycho,” he hisses, between clenched teeth. “Fuckin kill me.” 

“Mm, not now. Later, maybe. If you’re nice.” You clack the tongs in your hand. “I still have some things about troll anatomy I want to learn first.” 

Eridan can’t really scream — not in his current state — but the look of rage and hatred in his eyes is quite gratifying nonetheless. 

You are certain your dreams will be especially good ones tonight.

**Author's Note:**

> I sort of pulled back from what I wanted to do with this one and I honestly find the result unsatisfying, so I'm sure some major edits are forthcoming.


End file.
